"You're a good mummy,"
he told me
"you give me food
every night."
I thanked him,
told him how happy
his words made me,
but I began to cry.
Images of mothers,
some place else,
somewhere I am not,
flooded me.
Images of mothers
whose children
cry out in hunger.
Images of mothers
who hold their children close
because they have
nothing else to give.
I don't know how it feels
to tell a child
they cannot eat
for a third day
in a row.
I don't know how it feels
to watch as your child's ribcage
becomes more defined.
I don't know how it feels
to be truly helpless.
I cry,
for the image of mothers
whose tears remain unheard.
That maybe someone
might hear me
and ask why.